"Do you have to work in the morning?" Conner asks as he relaxes into the driver's seat, ready for the almost two-hour drive.
“Noon to midnight,” I tell him.
"You can use my car," he offers. "It's still at my parents. They were going to bring it the day after tomorrow when they all come to a game, but you can just keep using it until yours is fixed. I don't need it."
“I appreciate that, but…” I swallow down the no, even though it’s painful to do it. Fact is, I will need a car, at least for a couple days while I figure out how to get the money together to buy a new one. I’m sure this one is toast. “Okay. Thanks. I won’t need it long. I can deliver it to Portland myself as soon as I get a new car or figure out another solution.”
“Our family is friends with a lot of the local car dealers,” Conner tells me as I rub my bare hands together. Even with my gloves on I froze waiting for the tow truck. I still can’t quite feel my fingertips. I hold them up in front of the heat blowing out of the vents in the dash. “Everyone is trying to get us into their cars, they think it’s like free advertising, so we get great deals. I can hook you up with someone and get you a great discount by association.”
“I appreciate that.” I try not to frown or sound ungrateful. “But I’m not going to be able to afford a brand new car unless the discount is like eighty-five percent. And certainly not a fancy Garrison-style car. Your whole family is in Range Rovers and BMWs and Mercedes.”
"And your dad drives a ten-year-old Kia Soul, like you?" Conner questions. My dad drives a Jag. When I don't reply he smirks like he won something. "Can you explain to me why he lets you do it? Drive an old car on its last legs?”
“Because I refuse to let him or my mom pay my way in life,” I confess and turn my gaze off his face, which isn’t easy because damn, I swear he gets more handsome every time I see him. But I hate the look of amused confusion people give me when they hear this. “I have also paid for my own education. All of it. Well, the parts I didn’t get scholarships for.”
“Huh. Interesting,” is all Conner says and I sneak a peek at him. It’s very dark in the cab of the fancy pick-up truck he must have borrowed from a teammate or something, so I can’t read his expression.
"You think I'm ridiculous," I announce because it's the usual person's response.
“No. I think you’re more stubborn than I realized,” Conner replies. “And that you might feel like Alex and Brie have given you enough already. Because you’ve been keeping a running mental tab on the emotional and physical support they gave you when you were a kid and you feel like it’s already a loan you can’t pay back and so once you hit eighteen you refused to accept more. Or else you just don’t feel worthy of the love at all. I’m trying to figure out which it is.”
Whoa. I'm actually winded. If the airbag in front of me had suddenly deployed and punched me in the face, I would feel less attacked. I take a deep breath and hold it, count to ten, and empty my lungs entirely before inhaling slowly. "I think you should let the shrinks do the shrinking, Con, and stick to hockey."
“I thought we didn’t like the word shrink?”
“We don’t,” I confirm and now I’m glaring at him. My cold fingers are curled into fists in my lap. I hate what he just said. I hate that we’re stuck in this car and I can’t escape them, or him. I hate that there’s a truth to his words that I can’t shrug off. And I knew that, because Madeline has given me a similar analysis, as has every psychologist I’ve ever seen, and I saw one every two weeks of my life after moving in with Brie and Alex. Because they’re both big advocates for mental health. So why does this feel so… yuck? I don’t know and my defensive brain won’t let me find out. I sit silently stewing for about twenty minutes and then I come out swinging like Michael B. Jordan in Creed.
I turn in my seat so I’m sort of facing him. “You find a place to live yet?”
“No. I was looking today when I ran into you though.”
"Yeah I saw about five for sale signs on some mighty nice-looking buildings," I note. "And I also know there's a healthy rental market. Lots of availability."
“I am narrowing down the area I want,” Conner mutters. “I’m thinking I might rent an Airbnb in the Old Port to test it out. And then rent one in the coastal town I’m in and see how that feels.”
“Well by then the season will be over and you’ll be back in Silver Bay,” I say and he lifts his shoulders like he’s shrugging. “How convenient.”
“How is it convenient?”
“Because you’ll have avoided committing,” I point out, my psychiatrist brain in overdrive. “Less mess to clean up when you get traded or waived or whatever at the end of this season if you haven’t invested in property, right?”
Finally, he's pulling off the turnpike at the exit that will take us to Silver Bay. He steals a glance at me, and we happen to be passing a street light so his face is illuminated. He looks angry, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. "You think I'm going to get dumped again?"
"No, but you do," I reply flatly. "You haven’t scored yet. You had a rough night in the last game with the penalty and a missed pass on a key play. You're worried and still stung by the fact the waivers happened at all. You haven't shaken it off. You need to, by the way, if you're ever going to get out of your own way and get your mojo back."
“Mojo?” I can hear the sneer in his voice. “Is that a clinical term Doctor Larue? You paid the big bucks and drove around in a piece of shit to learn the term mojo?”
Oh, fuck him and his pompous attitude. "No. I pulled that term out of the hockey daughter's dictionary. You guys are always talking about mojo and vibes and lucky socks or jocks or whatever. Because god forbid any of you believe in yourself."
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he growls. “I know my talent doesn’t come from luck.”
“You have no idea where it actually comes from,” I shoot back, unable to shut up because I’m on some kind of horrible roll. I’m lobbing out truth grenades recklessly, which isn’t at all professional or kind. But then again he’s not my patient. He’s a man I’ve seen naked and have a serious crush on. There I said it. “You tell anyone who will listen you don’t want to coast on that last name because it doesn’t matter and yet you’re terrified of not living up to it. And because one stupid coach tried to make it seem like you didn’t live up to it, you’ve let it suck your ego dry. Honestly, Conner, you need to forget where you came from when you’re on that ice. If you wanna shake off the struggles you’re having on the ice, play like there’s no name on the back of your jersey.”
The farmhouse is in sight now. The barn looms like a dark ink spot on the massive, snowy canvas. Conner accelerates a little and I'd bet money it's because he can't wait to be rid of me. I've been harsh and my psycho-analysis of him was entirely uncalled for. I bite my lip as he turns up the long driveway and try to figure out how to backtrack. I don't think I can.
“Word of advice, don’t go into sports psychiatry,” he tells me, his voice low and hard. “You don’t have the bedside manner for it.”
"Ha. Ha. Don't worry. I intend to work with at-risk families and youth," I tell him even though I doubt he gives a crap about me after I just stripped him down like that.
“
“You know how you could have helped yourself?” Conner asks and before I can figure out an answer he continues. “By taking the help, Mac. The money and resources that your parents have to offer you. Stop acting like you didn’t earn it. They’re your parents, and their love doesn’t have to be earned.”
“I know how parents work, Conner, thanks,” I snap and unbuckle my seatbelt. “I don’t pay my own way because I don’t think I’ve earned their support. I do it because—”
"Because you are still trying to prove to people that you can take care of yourself," he interjects and then leans over the console between us, bridging the gap. His face is swimming in front of mine. "Instead of accepting the fact that you deserve to be cared for.”
Boom. Conner just launched a nuclear-level truth bomb.
“Thanks for the lift,” I croak and leap from the car like it’s on fire.
I march my way around the side of the bar, which is illuminated by a brand new bunch of motion-activated, solar-powered lights that Jordan installed two days ago. I'm sure thanks to Conner.
I’m sure I would be able to see the path to the door and everything around it as clear as day if my eyes weren’t swimming in unshed tears. Conner just stripped me bare, and I hate him for it. I’m blindly shoving the key at the door, where the lock should be but somehow I keep missing it, when a pair of hands land on my shoulders. They’re big and warm and I hate them.
“Go home Conner,” I hiss.
His hand wraps around mine and he guides the key into the lock. I shake him off and turn it myself. But when I open the door he steps inside with me. “Conner, go home.”
“I am home, princess,” he whispers, and I know he’s dipping his head to be close to mine because his breath dances across my cheek. “Being in this stupid little apartment with you is the only place I’ve felt like myself in months.”
“You can’t just attack me like that and expect to, what? Stay?” I ask as he reaches up and pulls off the knitted hat that was on my head.
“Everything I said was the truth and you know it.” His voice is a whisper but it’s firm. His palms land on either side of my face. They’re warm against my chilled cheeks. “And that’s why it makes you angry. Same reason why everything you said to me makes me want to rage.”
"So let's just leave each other alone," I mutter, but my body isn't listening to a word I say. My hands are traveling up the front of his jacket, seeking out his zipper with the full intention of lowering it. "Maybe we need a time out from each other."
“Maybe we’ve given ourselves enough time outs from our truths,” he replies. And then his lips graze mine. The kiss is soft and tentative. He’s waiting for me to double down on my words and push him away. But I don’t. I can’t, even if every fiber of my being knows it’s the easy way out.
He tries to break the kiss but I lean into it and open my mouth. As my hands pull the zipper on his coat down, and then shove it off his shoulders, his tongue barges into my mouth, claiming me. And everything just comes to life. Roaring, screaming, technicolor 5g life. Every nerve ending, every artery, every thump of my heart, every flutter of my eyelashes, everything is burning and aching and screaming for him.
“Princess, you’re crying,” he gasps as his thumbs hit the wetness on my cheeks. “I’m so—”
I kiss him, hard, because I refuse to let that word leave his mouth. I don’t want him to be sorry. Something has changed inside me. A switch has flipped and it’s awful and amazing at the same time. If he apologizes and gets all remorseful and gentle, the awful will overtake the amazing. And I want amazing. I can’t handle anything else right now.
So my tongue pushes into his mouth, taking over and forcing the word back down his throat. No sorry. No regret. No sympathy. I reach down and push my fingertips into the waistband of his joggers. Without a moment’s hesitation, I start sliding them down his narrow hips and over that apple ass of his. Damn. He’s not wearing underwear.
His cock, hard and already leaking, bobs between us. He ignores it as he begins unwrapping me, all the layers of winter wear I’m cocooned in. Like an eager kid at Christmas pulling wrapping paper off a present he tears away the scarf, the jacket, my cardigan.
I'm jerking him, slow and steady, as we make out and he finally stills his busy hands when they land on the front of my jeans. "If we don't get upstairs soon, I am going to fuck you right here in the entry, pressed up against that wall."
“Sounds like a plan,” I murmur before my thumb glides over the wetness at his tip and he shudders.
And then the ground is gone from beneath my feet. Just gone. My boots are dangling half a foot off the ground as the wall is suddenly pressed into my back. His mouth is still fused with mine, but we aren’t really kissing, we’re just breathing each other’s breaths. He lowers me gently, allowing my feet to touch the floor long enough that he can unzip my jeans and tug them down my thighs. Thank god they aren’t skinny jeans. They’re loose and so they slip right to my ankles without much more help than gravity. My underwear happily goes along for the ride.
He doesn’t waste a second before plunging two fingers into me. The moan I let out is stifled by his tongue in my mouth as he kisses me again. I kiss him back, arching my back as I ride his fingers and pump his cock with one hand and tug on his hair with the other.
“Last warning, Mac,” he pants into my mouth. “Let’s get upstairs or I am fucking you against this wall.”
“Wall.”
“Condom?”
“IUD,” I tell him and then whimper as his thumb rubs my clit and sparks coarse through my veins like fireflies. “Had STD testing after Beckett. Clean. I didn’t tell you the first time because—”
“Because you didn’t have to. We thought we were a random hook-up,” Conner interrupts, his mouth against my ear, his hand still working magic down below. “So there’s been no one but me since Beckett?”
“No one but you,” I confirm. It should be pretty clear, from the glimpse into my life he’s had over the last few weeks, that I do nothing but eat, work, sleep, repeat.
I should ask about him, I tell myself, as I fight the urge to come all over his fingers, which is getting stronger and stronger every second. I don't know who or what he's been doing. But before I can ask he tells me. "Had my new team physical last week. They always do a panel. Clean, and you've been the only girl in a couple months," he replies. "But princess, if I'm fucking you bare, then I'm not going back to condoms. I won't be able to. So you're mine and only mine until this ends."
"I agree to your terms and conditions," I promise him and he smiles against my mouth. I can't see it but it feels cocky and it's such a turn-on I whimper. "Signed, princess."
“Holy fuck,” he slaps my hand off his dick.
He's panting now, like a feral animal, and he starts moving as erratically as a caged one. His hands are everywhere, yanking and tugging and moving me. He manages to get one of my legs free from my jeans, cupping my ass, and lifts me further up the wall, pushing his hips under me, and then, he's slipping into me. Not his fingers, but his cock, hard and fast, over and over.
There wasn’t even a moment of burn from the abruptness because I’m so wet for him. I wrap my arms around his neck as my legs circle his hips and he grunts and bites my neck and whispers perfectly obscene things into my ear. “You’re so goddamn perfect. You feel like you were built for me. God I can’t stop looking at you… at me coated in you…”
My eyes flutter open and I realize his forehead is on my shoulder, his face looking down, eyes narrowed in the small space between us where he can see his cock slide in and out of me. When he finally lifts his head, the look in his eyes is… awe, desire, lust, and something else… something that may begin with the same letter as lust but is so much more scary.
The back of my head taps the wall with a thump as I beg, “Touch my clit.”
“Gotta hold you up baby,” he reminds me why his hands are occupied. But then he smooshes me harder into the wall, his whole body flat against mine and he changes the angle of his hips as he pushes up into me and… ohmyfuckinggod. There’s friction against my clit and the tip of his cock is punching a button inside of me that instantly launches me into orbit.
“Conner, oh my god, Conner,” I chant over and over as I come harder than I have in my life.
He swears over and over. “Mac, you’re so tight I can’t… oh fuck… Jesus Christ… I’m coming.”
We must look insane, half our clothes on, half of them off as we cling to each other fiercely and make obscene sounds and swear into the abyss. I feel him lower me back to the ground, my feet land on the tile, and I realize for the first time I have one boot on and one-off. He slowly tugs up his joggers but I don't reach for my own pants, dangling off my one boot-clad leg. I just watch him and revel in the fact that he seems as shaky as I feel. His orgasm wrecked him as much as mine did me. I wonder if the emotions swirling around his head and heart are as wild as mine are too.
He looks down at me, pressing our foreheads together for a second before he swoops me up like I’m a bride on her wedding day. I want to argue but honestly, my legs are still so shaky I might collapse if I try and climb the stairs myself.
He carries me up. “I’m spending the night.”
“Good.”
I feel like there’s more to say, but neither of us says it. We just get inside my apartment, peel off what’s left of our clothes, and crawl into bed together.